


The House on the Hill

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 04:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13605636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: The resident of the house on the hill was found dead -- curious that so little people in St Mary Mead remember the house on the hill, let alone the strange Mr Dorcas. Miss Marple is on the case.





	The House on the Hill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosefox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosefox/gifts).



 "Did you hear?" said Mrs Bedlam at the St. Mary Mead bakery to her neighbour of the past few decades, with a conspiratorial whisper that travelled miles. 

It was a bright and clear day in February, and Jane Marple had taken the opportunity to get out of the house. It was cold, but the streets had been cleared from snow and ice, and so the walk to the baker was possible, even enjoyable.

"I have not," Jane said primly. It was never wise to admit your own shortcomings regarding the acquirement of gossip lest they’d leave you out of the chain entirely, and though Miss Marple usually knew before Mrs Bedlam what the rumour was about, this might be the first time to the contrary.

Mrs Bedlam didn’t even try to hide the excitement in her voice. "There’s been a murder!"

"So, so," Jane said. "A murder?" There was just the right combination of scepticism and interest in her voice to prompt Mrs Bedlam to explain further, not that she needed much prompting, usually.

"You know, the house—" Mrs Bedlam said. "The house next to the giant oak?"

"I wasn’t aware that there was a house there," the baker woman, Allison McAllister, a renown eschewer of gossip for all that it went through her husband’s bakery most of the time, interjected. Miss Marple had been present at her baptism. "Wasn’t it an empty lot for the past fifty years? I thought a developer from London had been interested in it a while back, since it _is_ next to the river."

"Poppycock!" old Farmer Peters said. "It’s been there since I was a little boy, and it’s going to be there when I’m in my grave. You women have minds like sieves, always gossiping away. It belongs to the Dorcas family— you know, posh weirdoes— no offence meant to you, Miss Marple, they are— and sometimes I see them about. They pay for their vegetables on time, at least, which is more I can say for some other people." With that he shot Mrs Bedlam a hard look.

Slightly awkward with all these accusations getting thrown around, Allison lifted Farmer Peters’ bag of bread over the counter. Whenever he did say something, and he could go months without talking to a human soul, it always spurted out like water from a fountain. He grabbed his bread, tipped his hat to Miss Marple, and with a pleasant "Good Day!" left the premises. The action prompted Jane to half-remember something Gladys had asked her, but the revelation of a murder in St. Mary Mead distracted her from her original purpose.

"Anyway," Mrs Bedlam said, now that everyone was let in on the topic of gossip, in a more normal voice, "There’s been loud cracking noises for a few days, now, and when the power went out yesterday evening, just when I was about to make Tea, I sent Mr Bedlam out to the police, and they found him dead this morning."

"Mr Bedlam?" Allison asked, nonsensically, since if Mrs Bedlam’s husband had been dead, she’d be a different level of hysterical. Nothing else about Mrs Bedlam’s sentence made sense, however, so why focus on that. Jane resolved to look at the house herself.

"No, of course not! John’s at home tending to the roof. No, they found him—the owner. Mr Dorcas. They found him face first in his grits—someone must have poisoned him! Just goes to show."

"What does it show?" asked Allison, and Miss Marple wanted to know the same thing, even while she suspected that Mr Dorcas hadn’t in fact been poisoned.

Mrs Bedlam looked confused for a second; then, she rallied behind her usual bluster. "Well, if he’d been friendly with his neighbours, we would have known to keep a look-out for strange people!"

"Don’t you keep a lookout for strange people anyway?" Jane asked mildly, and Allison laughed. 

"Well, I never!" Mrs Bedlam puffed up in indignation, but before she could further convey her outrage, she decided that Miss Marple must have been joking with her; or at least she didn’t have a rebuttal planned, and so, opting for dignity, she took the satchel of bread handed over the display of baking goods without saying anything else. She didn’t leave the bakery, however, and instead waited as Miss Marple handed her own bag over the counter to fill with her usual.

"I’d like two extra scones, just in case," she told the baker woman, who added the requested items to her bag.

"It’s scary to think about a murder happening in our neighbourhood," Mrs Bedlam said. "Are you sure you’ll be fine, all alone in your house? Of course, luckily, I have Edward, but you, puttering in your kitchen all by yourself? I will be so worried because you’re all alone—"

"I’m sure Gladys will be glad to hear you don’t consider her company," Jane said.

Mrs Bedlam spluttered, "Of course, of course, how could I forget your servant." If there was a hint of envy in Mrs Bedlam’s voice, Miss Marple was too polite to point it out.

"She’s more of a secretary now than anything," Jane said. "I keep getting stalled on my history of the Marples."

"Of course, of course," Mrs Bedlam repeated.

"I would, however, like to see this house where the murder happened— I don’t quite recall you having a neighbour on that side."

"Oh yes, the Dorcases were always very quiet people, and you know, their house is so very unremarkable, easy to overlook— why, I myself had to go look at the doorbell to remember their names at all!"

"How unusual," Jane remarked. And it was, indeed, very unusual. Mrs Bedlam could recite family trees into the 18th century, not only her own but also that of everyone in St Mary Mead, even the new head of police who had moved here from London earlier in the year. For her to forget someone was quite the occurrence.

On the way to her house, Mrs Bedlam talked in a continuous stream of thought, as was her wont. Jane only had to insert the occasional "I say!" and "Really?" to keep her companion blathering on. The walk passed quickly, punctuated by the latest news about Mrs Bedlam’s various nieces and nephews, who never visited and never called but of whom she, nevertheless, always knew everything.

Usually, the Bedlams’ house was the first anyone can see, coming over the last hill, since it was the house furthest up. For that reason, the local fireguard had built a bombshelter underneath the house during the War, and it was something Mrs Bedlam still crowed about, even though it had simply been a practicality issue, and if the fireguards had had any sense, they would have chosen anyone else instead, since Mrs Bedlam’s general behaviour only grew worse under pressure. Today, anyone approaching could see a strange looking tower over the top of the tree line instead of the Bedlams’ prominent mansard roof. It was built out of bricks, like many of the traditional houses of the region, and yet it still had that sense of defying gravity, windows not lining up on the proper levels, the tower balancing precariously on a single stole. 

"My goodness," Mrs Bedlam remarked, "I’ve never noticed that the dome was quite this striking!"

"It certainly is," Miss Marple said, and nothing else.

 

Mrs Bedlam invited Miss Marple in for tea. Normally she wouldn’t have imposed, and would have found excuses until Mrs Bedlam gave up, but she really wanted to take a closer look at the house that had abruptly revealed itself. 

Jane didn’t even taste the black tea and certainly couldn’t have said later if the cream had been properly clotted, her mind revolving and revolving about finally finding out about the mysterious going-ons of the War. Much of her time at Bletchley Park had felt like a fever dream, afterwards, especially since she couldn’t find the house through which they had evacuated that once, even though it was in her neighbourhood. And yet, here it was, almost unchanged and just like she remembered.

On her way out, Mrs Bedlam gave her yet another letter of invitation for her Tuesday’s knitting group, no matter that Jane had repeated the same excuse for years now— that she’d be dining with her nephew every Tuesday.

Outside the door and hidden from view by the hedge, she waited a few heartbeats, and then, her curiosity couldn’t be held in any more. She walked in the opposite direction of her home, right up to the front step of the mysterious house that had not been visible yesterday, or the day before.

In fact, Jane could only remember that house from one day, and one day only: The day they had had to evacuate Bletchley Park, and it had been through Mr. Dorcas’ fireplace. There were a lot of things she wasn’t allowed to talk about her time at Bletchley Park, and the Allied secrets were the least of it and the easiest. Because who would believe her about the mysterious vanishing paperwork cupboards and the illusions cast on entire fabrication plants, or the green fire, through which they had evacuated the building for the only airstrike that came close to touching the property?

Jane stood in front of the post box, which had not been visible the last time she had visited, and looked up at the house. Nothing about it suggested that it was the sort of place she could forget easily. But she had, for the past decade— it seemed unbelievable.

Surreptitiously, she pushed Mrs Bedlam’s letter into the post box, and closed it. A few seconds later, she opened the box again— the letter had vanished. Just like the letter boxes she used to work with in Bletchley House. Taking a deep breath, she opened the hinged gate, leading up towards the front step and the door.

Nothing unexpected sprang out at her, but she still knocked once she had arrived at the door, half-expecting an entire battalion of wizards to spring out at her. With a creak, the door opened. It had not been latched.

"Hello? Is anyone here? Mr Dorcas?" Jane called.

There was no answer. She took a step forward. The hallway was inviting, if dark. Heavy furniture lined the walls, on the left table a basket sat with letters — the topmost being Mrs Bedlam’s letter Jane had just put into the post box. She pocketed it.

The first door to her right was halfway open, and she stepped into the room behind. The kitchen lit up, immediately, a warm fire flickering in the oven — an old make, with an open fire under an iron plate. The kitchen was in the interior of the house, and no windows let in daylight, an inconvenience without artificial lightening. There was a petroleum lamp, or what looked like one, hanging in the middle of the table, on which Mr Dorcas laid, still and silent. There was a tea set in front of him, and, in other circumstances, Jane would have said he had sunken down in exhaustion— but he was dead.

"Well," Jane said out loud, to nobody. "Shoddy police work, Inspector Palmer." 

The corpse was unremarkable— he hadn’t been dead for longer than a day or two, so the smell of decay hadn’t set in yet. Still, there was the distinct odour of something wrong—urine, and the smell of burnt hair. 

Jane could see quite clearly in the kitchen, which was remarkable, considering the lack of proper windows, and the flames on the lamps that did not look like they came from bulbs.

She looked around for any other modern appliances, and could see nothing at first. There was no refrigerator. She opened a few cupboards, to look if there was much in it, and the larger one next to the oven, let out a blast of cold air without the surring noise of electricity. Convenient, she thought.

Closer to the oven, the smell of burnt hair was more intense. It really did smell like an electrical fire, and Mrs Bedlamhad reported surges, even if the rest of her testimony was unreliable.

Jane decided to take another look at the outside of the house. Outside the main entrance, something scurried over the pathway, and it was the wrong movement for a mouse, but she didn’t let herself be distracted. The facade was still very peculiar— round windows paired with square shutters, a staircase leading nowhere, the dome that appeared to have a telescope attached — but there it was: a cable wire connecting the house to the public wire net, docking straightways towards the Bedlams’ house.

Jane went back inside. Before she could reach the kitchen to take another snoop around, there was a great swooshing sound from inside the house. Miss Marple grabbed the walking stick she had only taken because Gladys had nagged, in a more comfortable and threatening manner, and pushed open the door.

"Who’s there?" a young, female, and authoritative voice asked. 

Miss Marple set her stick back down, and then said, "I am Miss Jane Marple, from down the road— I only came in to close the door." She stepped into the doorway, and, for the first time, saw the person to whom the voice belonged. The new arrival was a woman, in her twenties, thirties, perhaps, dressed in a Victorian frock that reminded Miss Marple of the widows of her youth, including the pointy top hat that completed the ensemble. The clothing accentuated her waist and was very tasteful, the stitching of excellent craftsmanship. "It’s supposed to be raining, and there’s no need to ruin the carpet just because someone has died. Mr Dorcas wouldn’t have wanted that, surely."

The woman hesitated, then cleared her throat. "No, he wouldn’t." She paused, set a small bag on the sill of the fireplace, then asked, "Did you know him well?"

"Not well at all, I’m afraid," Jane answered. "I knew him during the War, of course."

"Of course," echoed the woman, in much the same way everyone else did when the War was mentioned. She paused again. "Did the Obliviators come through already?"

That was not a term Miss Marple was familiar with, though her rudimentary knowledge of Latin and her quick thinking had brought her far in life, and she could guess what the woman was on about— a lot of happenings around Bletchley House began to make more sense in retrospect. "I haven’t seen anyone," Miss Marple answered the question truthfully.

The woman let out an exasperated huff, and muttered something under her breath.

"And you are…?" Miss Marple asked.

"The assigned Auror, of course. Who did you think I was?"

Miss Marple figured "Auror" was someone along the lines of a police inspector, as Inspector Palmer would be the nearest with authority in this instance. "I was asking for your name, my dear," Miss Marple said. "Only so that I have someone to point towards."

"Excuse my poor manners," the woman said, and held out her hand. "I’m Auror Minerva McGonagall, and my partner Rufus Scrimgeour is on his way towards the local police station to talk with the responding officer, and do the obligatory Obliviation." She said all of this in a matter-of-fact tone. Then, she tacked on, "Do you know who might have wanted Mr Dorcas dead?"

Miss Marple was startled and refreshed by the direct conversation. Minerva McGonagall — and the name explained the soft tone colouration of her dialect, even though that was very faint — was a kind of woman she had rarely met before. "So you do think it’s murder?"

Minerva McGonagall turned around, and gave her with a look that would have felled a lesser woman. It made Miss Marple smile — she was really very fearsome. "What else could it be?"

Miss Marple took the opportunity to search for the electric outlet that had to be here, given the electric line connecting the house. And half-hidden behind a kettle of uncertain origins, there was indeed an electric outlet. A cord connected it to the large heating spiral submerged in the tea kettle. The cord was frayed.

"To be quite honest, I fear it was a terrible accident," Miss Marple said. "Do you smell the burnt hair?" 

Minerva McGonagall frowned and sniffed the air. "A potion, perhaps?" she guessed.

"Nothing quite so out of the ordinary as that," Miss Marple said. "Plain electricity, I’m afraid. Everyone always underestimates the mundane causes of death. Why, I said to Mabel just last week, that it really is such a terrible thing…"

"I’d much rather have the straight explanation," Minerva McGonagall interrupted her.

Miss Marple pursued her lips, and looked over her glasses at the younger woman. "I don’t just do straight for anyone," she said. The statement came out possibly more risqué than she had intended to, but she dropped the long string of details and talking around that she had planned.

They stared at each other for a beat. Then, Minerva smiled, and it changed her face to a very lovely — _very lovely_ — piece of art that Miss Marple could have looked at for hours. Alas, there was a dead body lying between them, and that would have to be dealt with before anything else.

"If an electrical circuit shorts out, then there’s an upsurge in electrical power through the next possible exit — which is what happened here. Basically, lightning went through his body. You will most likely find burn marks on his hand, and feet, as that’s where the surge escaped. A tragic accident— but an accident nonetheless."

"I see." Minerva McGonagall frowned. "And this… electricity, it’s not contained in any way?" She enunciated every syllable in the word electricity quite clearly, sounding it out, ad if she had never heard it before.

"Usually, it comes in cables— oh, you mean by the government? Naturally. Most households have it, nowadays. It’s very convenient for lights and other appliances."

"I have never heard of it before in my life," Minerva said, shaking her head in wonderment.

"You are a very isolated group of people, aren’t you?"

"I have no idea of whom you are speaking."

"Witches, did you call yourself? You have to excuse me, my last one was quite some time ago, and I’m afraid we didn’t occupy ourselves with exact terms. Bletchley Park had more important things to study, even though that seems like a mistake in retrospect."

"You’re a Muggle!" Minerva exclaimed, astonished.

"If that’s what you call people without a drop of magic, then yes, I guess I am a Muggle."

Minerva stared at her, quite bewildered. "Excuse me," she said finally. "Our usual protocol is just obliviation of Muggles and be done with it, but you seem quite familiar with our handling of our techniques!"

Pleased by the compliment, Miss Marple straightened her coat, and fluffed it up. "Bureaucracy is quite similar everywhere, I’m afraid," she said with a dainty smile. "And I did know Mr Dorcas from before—he was our evacuation route at Bletchley Hall, and in hindsight, it was probably because only magic would have been able to help us."

Minerva McGonagall looked perplexed. "I see," she said, and it was clear that she did not. "I do need to get this body to the ministry. I’m sure the Aurors can reconstruct the case in its entirety, but we will nevertheless be glad of your help. If I have more questions, is there anywhere we can contact you?"

"It would be my pleasure to have you over for tea anytime," Miss Marple replied. She searched her inseam pocket for her card book, and then handed a creamy white card with elegant inscription to the policewoman. "Here’s my card."

"Thank you," Minerva McGonagall said and looked down at the card. "You will hear from me soon." It felt like a promise.

"It will be my pleasure," Miss Marple said. 

While they were still eyeing each other, the front door opened with a loud bang. "Minerva, you still here?" said a loud voice echoing through the house.

"I will take my leave," Miss Marple said, and escaped before she could be obliviated herself. She nodded hello to the man — wizard, dressed in clothing of similar era as Minerva, even though it did nothing half as good on him as the flattering frock she had donned — who looked after her in confusion. 

Behind her, she could hear Minerva say, "We should have put up wards immediately — where is the team of Obliviators?" 

Jane Marple fanned herself with Mrs Bedlam’s letter and felt the brisk, cold air of the fresh outside. Her cheeks were very warm, and she hoped Minerva would come to her house without the inclination of leaving her without fewer memories. Maybe they could be creating more.


End file.
